Fate

The wheel waits, propped while it rusts,
Metal too ruined for scrap
By now, one would think. What next?

It leans against the railing.
Someone will get rid of it,
Sooner or later, won’t they?

What if it’s just left to rust
Indefinitely, useless
But outlasting the era,

The generations, maybe
Even the species? Future
Pasts are all around these cliffs,

Future arches eroding,
Future hoodoos emerging.
Maybe the wheel will sit here,

Future relic of deep past,
Fragile by then, ochre lace
Circle on columnar sands.